Dancing with the Mob: A Dark Mafia Romance Two-Book Collection

by Suzanne Hart

  “Hello, Mother.” I tried to sound cheerful, but it always came out flat. A monotone, like our relationship which we’d never really had. I absently touched a rosebush, suddenly pulling my hand back once a thorn hat gone right into my thumb. I put it straight into my mouth.

  She smiled; obviously pleased her handiwork had some effect on the world around her. I wondered if she had hoped it had been my father instead. Her smile shrank to a straight line, a determined shape that was matched by the focus of her eyes back to the rose bush, deliberating where to make the next cut.

  “I hear Nathan’s in the hospital,” she said casually, making the cut with a minor nod of satisfaction.

  I didn’t know what to say and pretended to examine my thumb, which started to bleed as soon as I looked at it. I returned my thumb to the safety of my mouth, conveniently making myself mute again.

  A helicopter flew overhead, reasonably low, I thought. It may as well have had FBI painted on the side. The house was under surveillance as the word would have been on the street that there was major trouble brewing. It filled the awkward silence well and I think both Mother and I appreciated the disruption. I wanted to turn and leave, but remembering there really was nothing to do, I decided to stay, to see what would happen.

  “Oh! You motherfucker! Son of a bitch!” It was her turn to be barbed by a thorn. I grinned at her through my red lips, still sucking my thumb. It was funny to hear her swear like that, it made her human, almost.

  Her irritation was obvious, not just for being pricked, but to be so in front of me. She mumbled something under her breath, which I couldn’t catch. It did lift my mood considerably, to see I wasn’t the only unhappy person in this household.

  I knew for a fact that my mother never went anywhere, and she had no real friends and spoke sparingly to the staff, apart from her own assistant. As far as her relationship with my father, I think that ended the day they were married. I had only heard gossip, but it was an arranged marriage and never a happy one at that. Something to do with her family’s business and the Bernardi’s, back in the day; in Italy.

  I stood there in the warmth of the garden, the buzzing drone of tiny insects repeating the dying hum of the helicopter as it hovered in the distance, feigning obscurity until its next pass of the entire estate. I was trying to think of something to talk about with my mother, something to ask her, to appear I was interested in what she was doing, whether she was alive or dead. I realized I was neither. The whole family were just other people to me. We shared the same domestic space, most of the time; we had minor conversations, mostly about money and finances, the rest was a part that I saw played out by the others.

  I wasn’t in the group; I wasn’t privy to what was really going on at all. My father’s affections for me, his concerns, well, they were all part of the act, part of the character he had forced himself to play, to perpetuate the Bernardi myth, the show. It was all a put on, but one that I knew had deadly consequences for so many.

  How soon until I become one of those victims? I need to get out of here, not just today or tomorrow, but for good. I couldn’t do it anymore.

  Mother seemed to, again, read my mind. “It’s no use, dear. I was younger too, once. I thought about getting away. About never coming back. I even did go a few times. He always dragged me back though, every time.”

  It didn’t alarm me that I was so easy for her to read; she was my mother after all. I wanted to ask her more about what she meant, about how she got away, but I was feeling the full heat on my face and was becoming bothered by it. Her voice, too. Her story and the idea of it generated a feeling of discomfort in me, like when someone you really have no interest in speaking to corners you, talking for ages while you try desperately to find a way out.

  How ironic.

  It’s no use, dear…

  She had turned away from me, a dismissive movement which she sealed by saying, “Go into the house and put something on that finger, don’t get it infected.” And that was it, my deep and meaningful with my mother.

  I could feel the guards shrugging to themselves internally as they followed me back to the main house. I changed course after seeing some other new work in a part of the garden and they followed a little closer behind. I have no idea what they would have done if I did try to escape. I had nowhere to go anyway; it was all too hard again.

  I resigned myself to a shady area of the garden, under a large tree and sat there for a long time with my back against its strong, thick trunk, willing it to give me some strength, some courage and purpose. A reason to go on doing what I had done previously, which suddenly, in the past week, had become alien to me.

  The tide of my thoughts rippled in sequence: Felix, Mikey and then what was I going to do? The same pattern of thoughts ebbed and flowed for what felt like hours, but must have only been around twenty minutes. I noticed the guards looking particularly hot and bothered, out in the full sun, so decided to move indoors again.

  I wracked my brain, trying to think what it actually was that I did all day. Being held at the house was like looking at myself under a microscope. I had my nocturnal activities, the infrequent trips to nightclubs, but apart from that… oh, and the visits to Felix, of course; I did very little.

  Wandering through some of the rooms I used to play in as a little girl, I justified my existence, refusing to accept my life was so shallow and empty. I went to the gymnasium a few times a week. I went to the spa and the salon. I went shopping for new clothes. I had lunch with…

  I was right. My life was shallow and empty. Without Felix, who I had kept separate for his own protection, my life was a vacuum.

  I was able to access the internet at least, so figured some retail therapy might do me some good. I soon discovered that, after trying to buy anything online, then checking my credit cards and bank accounts, that they had all been frozen. I really was trapped.

  The sense of betrayal and cruelty I felt were overwhelming. I had no more tears left to cry, and I was furious. I stormed across to the other side of the estate, with the guards struggling to keep up with me. The look I gave the guards at my father’s door was enough for them to let me through, I was as mad as I had ever been in my whole life. I pushed both doors open with such force that it surprised the men surrounding my father’s desk. One of them had already drawn his gun and had it pointed at me before I could even cross the floor.

  My father’s hands were up. “It’s alright, leave us.” He commanded it dryly, not taking his eyes from mine for an instant. I think he figured I too might have a weapon of some kind, and he knew exactly why I had burst in on him like that.

  “How dare you!” I screamed, at the top of my lungs. “How fucking dare you!” I marched over to him, my hand raised and ready to slap his face, but it was useless.

  His iron grip was on my wrist in a second. His face was calm, but his eyes had grown fierce and dark. With a little pressure from his strong arms, he had bent my wrist painfully. I cried out as he had my arm suddenly pinned behind my back, his other hand pulling my whole head back by my hair. He was hurting me and he knew it. My cries were heard throughout the whole household.

  “Let me go! I’ll fucking kill you, you bastard! How fucking dare you try to…” He let go of my wrist, holding my head in both his hands from behind me. I felt his grip tighten across the back of my neck as he bent in close to my ear, I could barely hear him over the sound of my breathing.

  “I will break your neck if you don’t stop your screaming, do you understand? You have embarrassed me enough, you little bitch! Your shame on this family is inexcusable.”

  I felt his hands twitching, and then the pressure in my head and neck as he lifted my body with his hands. It was making me whimper with agony and fear. He was going to do it, I could feel it. I thought of Felix and Mikey. The family we should have been. Then everything went black.

  Eighteen

  Mikey

  It was Slade himself who brought me out of my reverie. I was down, deep down i
n the muck of feeling sorry for myself. My past sins against myself, my family, my poor dead mother even. They were right; I was a screw up; worse than a screw up. I was a complete failure at everything I had put my hand to in this life and was feeling every bit of that when Slade entered the room.

  The look on my swollen, bruised face amused him, like he’d seen it before in other people who were about to die. It seemed to cheer him up, with the straight line that was his mouth turning up slightly at one corner, and as close to a smile that you would get out of a man like Slade.

  “Your father would like to see you, Mikey,” he said, glancing around the room, surveying the scene of my misery. The lack of anything that I would enjoy seemed to satisfy him. He held one hand up toward the door in invitation for me to join him and my father.

  I groaned, knowing that there was never going to be an end to my misery as long as I was in that house. My body still ached from his last little beating and I was beginning to feel real fear as Slade walked behind me as we made our way down to my father’s office. I could feel Slade’s satisfaction from behind me, it seemed he got a kick out of knowing I had been kicked, I think. It was the beating he had probably wanted to give me for so long.

  The doors to my father’s office were already open, he and some of the other men were bent over some blueprints of some buildings and other papers, which looked like maps or engineering drafts of parts of the city. Nobody looked up as we entered. Slade waited by the door, with his huge hands folded across his front. I figured that at least it wasn’t Slade giving the beatings.

  “Leave us,” my father said suddenly, loudly. The other men looked up, then over to me. They filed out past Slade, who closed both the giant doors gently behind him on his way out, like an usher at a darkened theater where the main show was just about to start.

  I stood in the center of the room, trying to look neutral, unemotional, but I felt my eyes betraying me. A beating from your own father is something you never expect or want. It’s also something you never forget. I couldn’t believe it, looking at him then, that it was the same man who had caused me so much pain before.

  He seemed smaller, frailer. His skin was almost gray it was so pale. I watched as he took some pills from a small plastic cup and washed them down with some water. Another, he placed under his tongue, which seemed to revive him a little, bringing some color back to his features.

  I kept thinking of Natalia, even during my terrible time there at the house. I could feel something was wrong with her as well as me. I wondered how much each family actually knew about what had happened. I could feel something else, something pulling at her, something that she loved very much. It wasn’t me, but it seemed to be a part of her.

  Mikey, I think you have bigger problems right now, focus and try and learn something. You must try and look for a way out of here!

  My father started his nice guy routine, and I vowed to be ready for when he got nasty this time, for what good it might do me. “Never have a daughter, they said. Girls are nothing but trouble!” He was shaking his head, smiling to himself in mock disbelief at his own words. “They say girls are nothing but trouble.” He was coming close to me, shaking his finger in my face and comically he smiled. “Boys! Mikey. Boys are more trouble!”

  He turned away from me and started to stroll around his desk, thoughtfully looking up into space, as if seeking inspiration for his sermon.

  “Your sister! Now, she is a girl a father can be proud of. You, Mikey. You are a great disappointment to me, to this whole family.” He sighed heavily, visibly fighting the rage that wanted to resurface.

  He seemed too tired, beaten. Like he couldn’t be bothered to get angry at the expense of his own wellbeing anymore. He puffed up like a toad, taking a huge breath, before planting himself backward into his large leather armchair behind his desk, exhaling loudly as he settled into it. I felt myself breathe out as well. The first time since I had entered the room.

  “Papa, I…” He raised his hand, quickly this time, to silence me. I wanted to tell him that I had realized I really was a failure, that maybe it was better if he just let me go, leaving me to make my own way in the world. If only it could have been that simple.

  “Mikey, you are a piece of shit. A stain on the name of Leone. I want to be free of you, I really do. But I cannot, I will not abandon my only son. It goes against the very nature of who I am. I detest you right now, but you are my son. I have to be the bigger man and allow you an opportunity to at least begin to redeem yourself, to come back to us here. To be a Leone again.”

  I felt the pit of my stomach begin to drift downward. I felt I would get sick if he kept talking like that. It was worse than being beaten, compounding my fears that there really was no escape this time.

  Whatever it is, just say it, old man. I can’t take this anymore…

  He sat silently for a minute, taking in my fearful apprehension, reveling in my uncertain future at his hand. I could see then, why he had picked Slade, they were so alike. Caring about themselves only, total sadists, who enjoyed seeing others squirm; measuring it against their own power as a status of their own security. My gulping broke the long silence and his smile became maddening, and so much so that I had to look away.

  “I have decided, Mikey. That you will do a job for us, this family. You will accompany Slade on a mission, this very morning. You will leave immediately. If you do well, we can see about your arrangements. If you fail, then God himself will have relieved me of the burden that is the curse of me having you as a son. Now get out!”

  Outside the door, I realized why Slade had been so smug. He was there, waiting for me, holding his arm forward again, beckoning me to go ahead in front of him.

  A blacked-out SUV was parked out front, the rumble of the engine idling, twitching like a steed as it waited for us to leave. Slade seemed to know everything and I looked to him for some sort of clue, but true to his character, he said nothing. I knew to get in, which I did, wishing I had gone to the bathroom beforehand, my guts giving a terrible sound before we even left the grounds.

  “Can we stop somewhere on the way? I need to use the bathroom,” I said feebly. I was pitched forward in a split second as he slammed on the brakes. The whole vehicle locking up. He looked at me with pure cold venom in his eyes and pointed to a tree.

  “Shit or piss, you have one minute,” he growled.

  I knew it was the only chance I had, so I had to use it. I was embarrassed and ashamed, but my bowels suddenly had the say so in what was going to happen next. I ran behind some bushes, counting the seconds before rushing back to the SUV. Slade had already hit the gas as I was getting in, nearly leaving me behind.

  I felt better though, relieved. I could have used a wash or a wet wipe, but I didn’t think Slade would oblige me two interruptions to his schedule in as many minutes. We drove in silence.

  After about twenty minutes, Slade broke his silence. “We’re going to the downtown hospital, entering the building through a gas and sewer main. We’ll be climbing up through a workman’s duct, into the ward. From there, I’ll take out the security. Under no circumstances are civilians to be targeted. Your job is to enter his room and put a bullet in his head, then we leave the same way we entered, after setting off some stun grenades. The smoke will stifle any efforts to follow us or show how we escape. Got it?”

  My jaw was hanging, I could feel it. I took a moment to go over everything he had just told me. “Who’s room?” I asked, as casually as I could, my voice breaking again.

  “Nathan Bernardi’s room, of course!” He scowled at me, like I had asked him the color of the sky, or the first letter of the day of a week. I had to use the bathroom again.

  Everything was just as Slade had said; we pulled into an underground park a half a block away from the hospital. And, using a workman’s entrance, took the steel grated ladder down into a very narrow and very dark shaft. There were small bunker lights every few yards, most of which weren’t working. Slade closed the entran
ce door behind him, having had me go down first.

  “If there are any problems I want you to be the first to tell me,” he said.

  I could sense the creased line of his smile in the darkness. The tone of his voice told me that he, at least, was having a good time. I nervously edged my way down the shaft for what felt like around five minutes. My arms and legs ached by the time we neared the bottom, a rush of cooler, dank air was rushing up to greet us. I could see more light and the sound of running water was nearby. There was also the unmistakable stench of human waste, but it was subtle, nowhere near as strong as I’d imagined it would be.

  “If you need the bathroom again, there it is,” Slade quipped, jerking his thumb toward a wide, slow-moving torrent of dark water.

  His movements were like a cat’s. He seemed on high alert, each of his senses in tune with our surroundings. He darted a short way ahead of us and, rummaging behind a pillar, he produced a large, tactical backpack which he began emptying.

  I had to use the stream, I didn’t care. I was so scared as I perched myself at the edge, my own smell was nothing compared to what was coming off the turgid, lava-like flow of waste and water. I retched loudly and was sure I could hear Slade laughing, but told myself it was just the stream of a city’s shit behind me making that sound, mocking me as I began to fear for my life for the second time in twenty-four hours.

  Slade had readied himself with full tactical gear; there was a mask for me, but just plain black overalls to distinguish us. Apart from the obvious size difference, one of us looked like a commando and one of us, me; a lowly janitor or workman. I figured that was part of the plan.

  I struggled to keep up with Slade as he trotted, and he practically ran the huge distance between where we had come underground to where I assumed we would start our ascent. We had to wait while I got my breath back. Slade just shook his head to himself, having kept his breathing the same the whole day.